


Composition

by missyvortexdv (Purpleyin), Purpleyin



Category: 4400
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/missyvortexdv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/Purpleyin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alana short set during Mommy's Bosses, with some Tom/Alana, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composition

**Author's Note:**

> Betaread by Fanwoman
> 
> Spoilers: Up to Season 2 "Mommy's Bosses"

It seems like an eternity she's been surrounded by these white walls, trapped in a place she doesn't recognize, not knowing why she's here. Today - as much as she can tell the difference between days and nights, of time passing at all - she finds a man moving towards her bed, ignoring the cart rattling by, carrying a dead woman. That woman could so easily have been her, for all she knows of this bleak prison of hers. But all the man focuses on is her, seeking contact, taking her hand gently, even though he's wrapped up in layers of plastic for protection and can probably barely feel anything but the fact he's holding on. That seems to be the one fact he needs, though she doesn't know what to make of it.

"Hey, sweetie. It's me, Tom." he says, his voice full of hope.

She looks at him, the masked man with blue eyes that stare straight into her soul, and she can't tell who he is, nor can she look away, because she knows she should know. She's trying as hard as she can, but she just doesn't remember. She doesn't even remember much of who she is, let alone anything about anyone else.

Everything is disjointed, memories cut and torn, residing in all the wrong places. They're out of order, no sense of time to them, like paintings in her mind, strokes across a canvas, put there deliberately, but they don't feel right. They lack the cohesion they should have; there is only a mindless, haunting confusion caused by what little there is left. And these things she still sees, incomplete collections of the postcards of her life, they're _made_, and she doesn't know _who_ made them. She doesn't feel like that person, like the person he's looking for as he holds her hand and asks questions he already knows are pointless. She can't help him, and she only wishes he could help her.

"Who are you? _Who are you_?" she asks, and she truly wants to know, to be able to have something to hold onto that she can be sure of, to reciprocate the care he's showing her. Despite his mask, she can tell he's heartbroken when she responds, but it can't quite compare to her desperation for answers. Yet even if he were to provide them, it wouldn't help.

She can't remember; nothing is real to her. Answers are all she will get, but they are only words. What she _needs_ are the bright pictures of her mind that _show_ her what her life was like, who he is – those are what she lacks, having only the damaged snippets in her possession. These are what he cannot provide, however much he might want to.

She'd ask him, "Who am I?" if it would help at all, but she knows it won't. She feels blank; she doesn't know how to react to anything. But she does know she's scared, so she grips back tight upon his hand. It's all she knows she wants to do, and emotion is all she has when everything is stripped from her. She can't let go of him, can't look away, even if she has no idea why not. It's the small details that confound her, but there is no reason here anymore. She's lost, the woman she was before... all this - whatever any of it is - but he'll find her, bring what she is back to her somehow. It's the one thing she can trust, what she holds onto. He will make things right, if only because he needs her.

In the meantime, she's found him. Even after he's left, she clings to the image of his eyes standing out in the sliver of uncovered face, blue eyes that she can see would normally be steely, that instead brim with unshed tears. It's an image that adds depth as great as an ocean in her imagination, causing her fragile mind to dream of drowning in calm deep blue waters, but without fear and the struggle of the waking world, because she has faith he will come back for her. He will wake her from this nightmare and make it all real, whole again. Then, she will be able to answer him with certainty, and perhaps make him smile, taking away the sadness in his blue eyes that is all she knows of him for now.


End file.
